


Bricolage

by Mira



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:04:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira





	Bricolage

Comics!Galore is delighted to announce that Sean Astin will be a guest at the fifth annual Comics!Galore celebration in Tucson, Arizona. He will speak Sunday afternoon. Tickets are on sale now through Ticketron.

~ ~ ~

_Hi Daddy! When are you coming home? Mommy says to tell you that Lizzie's a big girl now, even though she spit up on Grandma today. At school I have to do a health report but I don't know what to do it on; would you help me? Mommy says I can go to Jenna's birthday party on Saturday. Will you take me? I can only have one piece of cake because of all the sugar. Are you coming home soon? Mommy says I have to get off the phone now. Will you call me soon? I love you. And Lizzie says she loves you, too. And Mommy sends kisses and hugs. Bye, Daddy. Bye._

~ ~ ~

Freedom for All is proud to announce that Sean Astin will be one of the presenters at our thirty-seventh awards ceremony to be held at the Westchester Hilton. Mr. Astin is best known as Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings.

~ ~ ~

_Hi, sweetie. Did you hear from that TV show about doing an interview together? I think it might be fun, but I'll let you decide._

_How are you? I hardly ever see you anymore. You're always so busy. Call me, okay? And listen to your mother: you come home for a visit soon. Love you. Kisses._

~ ~ ~

Veterans Memorial Hospital welcomes Sean Astin, who will be speaking at an in-service for staff, and then greet children and their parents staying at the hospital. Mr. Astin will speak on the importance of friendship and community service.

~ ~ ~

Sean remembers. He has an excellent memory; it's more than useful for an actor, particularly one working in television, and it certainly helped him in school. He remembers people's birthdays and appointments, his wife's favorite perfume, his older daughter's worst nightmare, his mother's triggers for depression.

He remembers New Zealand.

Sean remembers that he and Elijah were the good boys. Nice, middle-class boys, even Sean; even though his mother had won an Oscar and an Emmy and numerous other awards, they were both just nice boys.

Billy and Dominic were not nice boys. Quite the contrary. They were hellions, and literally raced around the set wreaking havoc. Everyone felt a bit sorry for them, for different reasons, of course, but regardless, they got away with much mischief that other cast members might have been chastised for.

Besides, they were adorable. When they weren't being impossibly loud.

In the mornings, to wake themselves, the hobbits would play music. Very loud music, and then argue about the quality of it, or shout the lyrics, many obscene. Elijah and Dom bonded over music, but Billy and Sean made their contribution, too. Sean took great pride in being the one who introduced the Beatles to Elijah.

The first few months, when the Fellowship remained intact, the four spent nearly all their time together. Doing naughty things at times, even the good boys, even, to his own surprise, Sean. Though he wasn't with Elijah when he peed in the fountain. Egged on by Dom, of course; not the sort of thing Sean thinks that Elijah would have done on his own.

The vulgarity was shared by all four, even Sean. He believes it to be a generational thing, as well as an occupational hazard; actors all swear like stevedores. Sean theorizes that it's to compensate for not doing any real work, just pretending all day. Amusing to hear the foul language from the beautiful lips of Elijah and in Billy's Glaswegian accent. Dom, now, looked a bit like a miniature stevedore, so no surprises there. Sean swears, too, and quite well; he takes great pride in his vocabulary, as long as there are no women or children present.

Sean also takes a powerful delight in how the four hobbits appear to fight constantly: jabbing each other in the lower back, twisting each other's arms, tripping each other. They fight verbally, too, abusing each other in the most horrific terms. Yet not one of them ever appears cross about it. Sean decides that obscenity has become the terminology of love for them, another language, like Quenyan or Dwarvish.

More like Dwarvish, actually.

"Fucking cunt, you piece of shit," Dom spits, and kicks at Sean, who calmly lifts a hand, middle finger extended. It would be unclear to an observer what they are arguing about, and in fact, Sean isn't certain. But as Dom's face and ears turn redder and redder, Sean gets calmer and calmer, his voice deeper and deeper as he gives as good as he gets. He enjoys that; he admits it to himself. Before New Zealand and the hobbits, he'd had no idea that he'd be good at this behavior, nor how much he would enjoy it. So when Dom kicks at Sean again, Sean snatches Dom's leg and gives a sharp jerk, so that Dom falls on his backside, howling and kicking his heels. Elijah jumps on top of him, and Billy jumps on Sean, who manages to fall on Dom's legs, so now he's completely covered by his brother hobbits. "Gerroff, gerroff!" he bellows hoarsely; of course, no one complies. Elijah in fact begins to tickle him mercilessly, until Dom is weeping and writhing while Sean holds his legs and Billy tugs ineffectually at Sean.

Eventually they all collapse; fighting is exhausting work.

"Say you're sorry," Sean says, still on top of Dom. He can't remember what prompted their fight, but the feel of Dom's body under his, with Elijah pressed tightly against Sean, is worth anything.

"I'm sorry you were ever born, you great wanker."

Sean pinches Dom's bottom; he grabs at it and roars, nearly bouncing Elijah off him when he jumps. "Fucker, that hurt!"

"Was supposed to. Now tell me you're sorry and I won't do it again."

"You're goddamn fucking right you won't do it again or I'll fucking kick your head in."

Sean pinches him again, harder, and Dom screams in rage. Sean never did this to his little brother, but somehow with these new brothers, it's mandatory behavior, and he relishes it. He's old enough to know he needs to seize the day. Not to mention Dom's bottom.

Elijah is laughing. "Say you're sorry," Elijah advises Dom, gasping for breath, "or your bum's gonna be black and blue."

"Bum is British," Sean tells him firmly. "Speak American. His butt'll be black and blue."

"It already is, you effing pervert."

Sean pinches him and twists, and Dom yells, "Sorry! I'm sorry, goddammit, I'm, I'm sorry." Sean massages and then pats Dom's butt, soothing the bruises he must've left there. "Hurts," Dom says sulkily.

"I know. I'm sorry. But you did deserve something."

Dom looks at Elijah, who still lies atop him, his head resting on his arms he has crossed over Dom's chest. "You didn't stand up for me."

"You were wrong. When you're right, I'll fight for you."

"You never think I'm right."

"I do now."

They grin at each other, and Dom gently pinches Elijah's nose. "Hey, hey, no more pinching or I'll sic Sean on you again."

Dom jerks his hand away. "God forbid. I've learned my lesson." From the tone of his voice, it's obvious he has done no such thing. "You can take your hand off my arse now, Astin."

Sean squeezes him firmly instead. "Such a nice arse." He pronounces the "r" in arse very hard, and Billy snickers.

"Arse, you arsehole," Billy corrects him. Sean rolls off Dom and onto Billy, who says, "You can say it, Seanie. Come on. Arse. Aaaaarsse."

"Bum, buttocks, bottom, butt, ass, and arse." He pronounces it as Sam might, if Sam ever said "arse," and Billy is pleased. He kisses Sean's cheek noisily and they grin at each other.

The fight, it appears, is temporarily over. Truce until the next time. Sean clambers off Billy and offers his hands to Dom and Elijah, pulling them up, then collecting them for a big hug, Billy forcing his way into the middle.

Sean remembers all that so well, so clearly, that it literally hurts him. He sits on a bed in some hotel room somewhere, head in his hands, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and remembers. Despite the pain, he forces himself to remember.

It's like cutting, he thinks, remembering after-school specials he seen that terrified him about his daughters' futures. Would they self-injure? Become anorexic? Use drugs, have sex, run away? The future hurts, too, but not in a good way. So he closes his eyes and remembers. Like cutting himself, to remain in control of the pain that would otherwise kill him.

Later that day, when someone asks him, "So you like The Proclaimers?" he realizes he's been singing, "If I flattened all the vowels and I threw the 'R' away."

~ ~ ~

_Sean. Beautiful morning, isn't it. Except you're not here to see it. Henry told me that you're in Denver, and then Atlanta, and then somewhere else, where Henry? _

_Henry says San Diego._

_Sean. It's such a beautiful morning, but you can't know that, can you, because you're not here. We're here, though, Henry and I, and we'd love to take you to breakfast. Henry says pancakes._

_I'll eat a blueberry pancake for you. Hobbits like pancakes, I believe. Although I doubt they had maple syrup. Sorghum, maybe. Or honey._

_I miss you, Sean. It's such a beautiful day, but you're not here to see it._

~ ~ ~

Sean stares out the tiny porthole, watching the endless sky. Such an impossible color. Like Elijah's eyes; that's the inevitable comparison. He is almost ashamed to make it, except that it's true.

For an instant, he wishes he were back there, back in New Zealand, sitting next to Elijah, running lines, blocking scenes, but he quickly turns that thought aside. He remembers instead sitting with Billy, sharing a styrofoam cup of overly sweet tea. Passing the cup back and forth, sipping gingerly at it, Billy pressed against his side, his wig tickling Sean's face.

"Can't remember the last time I was this cold," Sean murmured to him.

"I fuckin' well can. Fuckin' Moria. Either we're boilin' or freezin' my balls off."

Sean rested his arm across Billy's shoulders and pulled him nearer. "I happen to have some extra body heat these days," he said. "Or at least some extra body. You're welcome to share."

"Thought you'd never ask," Billy said, snuggling into Sean's cloak. Sean relaxed against him; not even the tickling wig bothered him. "Wonder if we'll finish this scene or if it's all fucked up."

"Look at Chris's face. I'm betting on all fucked up." They sighed in unison. Eventually Sean became aware that Billy was studying his face. "What? What?"

"Just how different you look."

"Fuck you, Boyd."

"No, not that. Don't be embarrassed, Sean. But it isn't that anyway, not the weight. Well, a little bit the weight, yeah, but." He tilted his head, staring.

"I'm gonna file charges against you in a minute, Bill."

Billy leaned forward and kissed Sean's cheek. "Tired. Yeh're lookin' tired, Sean. And so unhappy. Is there anythin' that I can do?"

Sean stared into Billy's eyes. Not blue, not in the least blue; they were closer to his own color, a rich hazel but with green and gold highlights. They were, Sean thought, beautiful eyes. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Billy's, closing his eyes against those too-seeing eyes. "There's nothing anyone can do, Bill. But thank you. Thank you."

He felt Billy kiss him again, and then both his arms went around Sean's neck. They clung together, sharing body heat and comfort. Finally Chris stood up and clapped her hands, looking pleased.

"Guess it's back to work," Sean murmured. He hugged Billy tighter, not wanting to let go. Then he felt Billy patting his back, so he released him, a little embarrassed, and they stood up. Dom and Viggo raced into sight, both gasping for breath, but Elijah seemed to just appear in Sean's vision, as if he'd been present the entire time but invisible to Sean until he wished to be seen.

Sean stared at him, knowing he was blushing. Billy patted his face as he rose and went to Dom. Sean waited for Pete to tell them what to do next. Be there on time, hit your marks -- he knew he could do that. He'd been born knowing how to do that.

~ ~ ~

_My dear Sean: As you see, I have quite mastered the internet. Email, web pages, google, and I even know how to IM, although I am as yet unable to carry on more than one conversation at a time._

_I tell you this in the hope that you will take pity on an old man and email or ring me. Won't you? You are so busy these days. I would love to catch up with you. Call me, darling boy. I mean it. _

_Or I shall turn you into a garden toad._

~ ~ ~

One night, in a dark hotel restaurant, Sean sits picking at a caesar salad; its claim to fame consists in tiny cubes of deep-fried polenta rather than croutons. Very garlicky, which Sean normally enjoys, but tonight the flavors cloy and the meal, even the little he's eaten, sits heavily on his stomach.

By dint of hard work and actually going hungry, he's managed to lose much of the weight he'd gained as Sam. He still loathes his body, though. Looking up through his lashes, toying with chunks of romaine, he watches the other diners and, beyond them, the inhabitants of the bar. Were he someone else -- Dom, maybe -- he'd go to the bar. Buy a round, be chatted up, tell anecdotes about his time in New Zealand and what the other boys were doing.

But Sean is not Dom, nor Billy, and he's certainly not Elijah. He's not Sean Bean or Viggo, either. He'd like to be Ian, if only because so much of his life would be behind him. The past, Sean has learned, is safer than the present, and more pleasant that the future. Even unhappy events are given a patina by time.

When Andy ripped the wig off Sean's head, he'd fled the set, telling himself he needed Makeup to take care of things right away before he could return. Purely professional behavior, except not. The tension between him and Andy had run high for some time afterwards. Elijah had tried to talk to him about it, making tentative jokes about Sam and Smeagol competing for Frodo's attention and love, but Sean had refused to discuss it.

"Sorry," he'd told Andy, a bit shamefaced, and they'd shaken hands, the crew watching, Elijah nearly wringing his own hands.

"Not a problem, mate," Andy said cheerfully. He was a cheerful bloke, Sean had discovered, despite the impossible hours he worked. Until he'd worked with Andy, Sean thought he'd had the worst of it, carrying that ridiculous pack around for over a year, pots and pans and a ladle bouncing against the back of his thighs. And the hours he and Elijah had put in had violated every labor law Sean had ever heard of.

But Andy worked even longer hours, and more frustrating ones, doing the same scenes over and over and over again. Sean admired and even feared that resilience. Elijah invited them both out for beer one night; Sean can't remember where they were, somewhere on South Island, he thinks, but all the bars and pubs and clubs have blurred together for him. Somewhere, though, the three of them had sat at a flimsy table drinking warm beer. Sean had learned that Andy had had to fight for Gollum the way he'd had to fight for Sam.

He respected that, he did, but it also made him felt guilty. How dare he be exhausted and frustrated when Andy had it so much worse?

"I like Andy, I do," he insisted to Elijah when Andy had gone to the men's room. "You don't have to make us play nice."

Elijah looked hurt. "I'm not. It's just we have a lot of time ahead of us. It's easier if we get along."

"We get along," Sean had snapped at him, and then blushed furiously.

Elijah didn't say anything, and Sean envied him yet again his control and maturity. How could a kid ten years younger than him be so much more professional? Loser, he scolded himself, finishing off the beer. Fucking loser.

"I'm gonna go, Lij," he said, standing and tossing some money onto the table. "Tell Andy good night for me, okay?"

"Sean," Elijah had said, staring up at him with those luminous eyes that wrenched Sean's heart. "Please. One more round."

Andy returned just then. "Leavin' already, hobbitses? I'm still thirsty, which is ridiculous when you think how many gallons of that fucking ginger-tea crap I drink. Let me buy you one more round."

Elijah took Sean's hand and tugged. "One more round," he whispered, and Sean dropped into his seat.

"Thanks," he mumbled, trying not to appear too ungracious, and feeling even guiltier at Elijah's obvious pleasure.

By some freak of scheduling, Sean bumped into Ian the next day. "Gandalf?" he asked in Sam's voice, and Ian beamed at him.

"My dear hobbit," he said, and embraced Sean. He sank into Ian's hug, tempted to rest his head on Ian's bony shoulder and weep.

"Shit, it's good to see you," was all he said, though, patting Ian's back. "Wait till Lij learns you're here. I think he has a new CD for you to listen to."

"To deafen me with, you mean," Ian said, smiling at him. "I don't miss sharing a trailer with you boys. Billy is much quieter in the mornings."

"Only because they pried him away from Dom," Sean pointed out, and Ian nodded.

"I do believe Dom could talk anyone into anything. Very dangerous young man." But Ian was smiling. Sean agreed with him; Dom was indeed a dangerous young man.

"How long will you be here?"

"Oh, just a few hours. I've come down to meet with Philippa and Fran."

"It's great to see you. I wish --" But Sean wasn't sure what he wished.

"I know, I know," Ian said, and squeezed Sean's elbow. "I feel the same way. Nothing's ever been like this, nor will it be again."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Sean whispered, more honest than he'd intended.

"We all are, Sean," Ian said, and then hugged him again, tightly. "Are you taking care of yourself?" he whispered.

Unbidden tears came to Sean's eyes. Why now and not when Sam has to cry? he thought, blinking them away. "I'm fine, Ian. Just ask Lij or Andy. Sturdy, reliable Sam."

Ian leaned back so he could look into Sean's face. "Reliable Sean," he said softly.

Sean watches a young couple in the bar. The man has blond hair cut Kurt Cobain-like, with dark streaks at the crown. He wears a yellow tee shirt that clashes with his hair, and smiles like a shark at the pretty girl with him. They look barely old enough to drink to Sean, but he knows that he's losing the ability to guess young people's ages. They all seem like children to him.

Old before your time, he chides himself, poking at another polenta crouton, watching it crumble into the salad. Older than Ian will ever be.

He sits back and waves for the waiter to bring his check. He needs to get a little sleep before tomorrow. And if he's going to moon over the past, he'd prefer to do that in the privacy of his own room.

~ ~ ~

Ford's annual Test Drive will take place over the weekend at the beautiful Riverion Raceway. Celebrity drivers include Sean Astin, best known as Rudy and Samwise Gamgee.

~ ~ ~

Driving the car had been brilliant, Sean thought, showering the sweat off his body. Jesus, he should do that more often. The speed, the blur, the noise, the heat -- it was so exciting. Like really loud music with a strong bass line. Fantastic.

He wasn't very good at it, but he was just a draw for charity, and one thing Sean knew about his fans was that they were generous. He could feel good about raising money for causes, even as he felt a little guilty using his celebrity to do so, especially when he had had so much fun at the same time.

His ground crew had been great, too. Laughing and sweating and swearing and joking with him; it had almost been like being back in New Zealand with the boys. He'd let himself get lost in the sensations. He knew a little bit about cars and could follow the disjointed conversations.

But he fucking loved driving the Corvette around and around and around -- like some weird form of meditation, focused on the road, the wheel, the sensation beneath his hands. He wondered if there was something like that back in LA. Instead of playing golf, he could drive a racecar. A celebrity hobby he couldn't really afford, but fuck, it had been good.

Like sex in a way, he thought, and dropped his hands to his cock. Jesus, Jesus, but that felt good. So exciting, so powerful; a way to take himself out of himself. He dropped his head back, stretching out the muscles of his neck and upper back, while he stroked himself. At first he imagined the world spinning around him, utterly under his control. The smell of gas and oil and asphalt, gravel flying, the wheels skidding then grabbing . . .

But then he remembered driving along a beach on the west coast of South Island in some kind of sandbuggy, with Lij sitting next to him and Billy and Dom standing in the back, hanging onto the roll bar, shouting encouragement at him as he flew down the empty beach. It couldn't have been legal, that kind of fun, spinning doughnuts in the sand, listening to his friends swear and shout and laugh.

And Elijah had clung to his arm, bracing them both against the bouncing of the vehicle. Dom had pressed his knees into Sean's back, and Billy had tugged a cap firmly on Sean's head when it threatened to blow off. All of them right there with him, enjoying him, shouting encouragement at him.

He came in his hands so suddenly that his left knee gave out and he had to catch himself against the cold tile wall. Bowing his head, he watched as his semen washed off his thigh and hands and down the drain.

It was impossible to miss those times more, he thought, scrubbing fiercely at himself. It simply couldn't be healthy to remember so vividly, so fucking painfully vividly. But fuck if he'd give it up. The sound of Elijah's shrieking laughter, the smell of Dom's sweat, the gentle touch of Billy -- Sean knew there wasn't anything he wouldn't relinquish, as long as he could keep those memories.

He had a big day tomorrow, flying off -- flying off somewhere. He couldn't remember where, but it was in his Palm. As long as he followed the agenda, he'd be okay.

~ ~ ~

_So, big brother, are we gonna get together for lunch, or what? Isn't this the third time you've blown me off? I think it is._

_Seriously, Sean. I never see you. Mom's asking about you. What the hell are you doing?_

_Call me. Goddammit, Sean. Just fuckin' call me; that's all I'm asking._

~ ~ ~

"What the fuck are you running from?" Mack asks Sean, staring him down. "Why do I have to fly to the middle of Bumfuck, Illinois, to talk to you? Do you remember where you live anymore?"

"Mack, I gotta go to work --"

"Fuck, Sean, Seanie, stop. Just stop." Mack puts his big hands on Sean and holds him still. Mack's a lot bigger than Sean, who notices how his biceps bulge from the sleeves of his tee shirt. He drops his eyes. "Let's sit like civilized people, okay?"

Sean nods, and they sit in the lobby of whatever hotel he's staying at. In his shirt pocket are several three-by-five cards, listing where he's going, for what reason, and a brief outline of a talk he'll give, but despite his famed memory, at the moment he has no clue where he should be when. Might as well be late. He's known for that as well.

"Well?" Mack asks, and Sean looks up. "What's wrong?"

Sean shrugs. "Nothing. I have a window of opportunity here and I'm using it to the best of my ability. As long as people will pay to hear me, I have to go." Mack starts to object, but Sean speaks over him. "I have two little girls who need dresses and shoes and someday college. I have a bi-polar mother. I need a big bank account for when this window closes." He shrugs again, and wishes he smoked. One of Elijah's cloves would be good right now.

Mack doesn't answer, doesn't say anything for a long time. The two brothers sit silently; Sean is a little afraid to look at Mack. At last, Mack sighs heavily. "Since I flew all the way out here, I'm going to spend some time with you whether you like it or not. Maybe we don't have to have a big heavy discussion. But let's at least hang."

Sean looks up at him, and sees his little brother, all grown up and worried about him. He puts his hand on Mack's knee and squeezes. "I'd like that," he says so softly it's nearly a whisper.

Mack shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "What is it about you hobbits? What happened down there, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just you, and Dom, you're both different. I mean, not that I knew Dom before, but." He stops, looking frustrated, and sighs again. "Never mind. Come on. Don't you have someplace to be? I can hear about your most sacred moment again."

Sean blushes, but forces himself to smack Mack's leg as he rises. "Wanker," he says, before remembering that that's a British term.

"Tosser," Mack replies, grinning at him, and he slings an arm around Sean's shoulders and kisses the top of his head. "Come on, little hobbit," he whispers. "And then we'll talk about going home."

~ ~ ~

Sirius Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine is delighted to announce that Sean Astin will be appearing together at the Dogstar Awards Show on Sunday. Advance tickets may be purchased via the internet or telephone; none will be available at the door.

~ ~ ~

_Sean? Hi, how are you? Why aren't you answering? How's the girls? Really, man, it's been just, you know, wild, really wild. Why the fuck aren't you in LA? We could meet up and have a drink; it'd be brilliant, yeah. Are you going to the premiere? I'd really love to see you again, and me mum's gonna be there and she'd love to see you again, too, and your mum as well. You know, family night or somethin'. How's that sound? Call me, okay? You don't even have to appear in costume. See Elijah much? I was hopin' to meet up with him in London but it never happened. It'd be so cool to see you all again, have drinks, just brilliant, man, you know? I really really'd like to see you. So call me, okay? You know my number. Love you, man. Really._

~ ~ ~

He's in Cedar Rapids, Sean knows. He knows because it was Elijah's home town. One that Elijah admittedly could barely remember, but nonetheless, there was a big billboard on the city limits welcoming visitors and announcing The Birthplace of Elijah Wood in big letters.

A Holiday Inn, clean, smelling of Pledge and Lysol, with an air conditioning unit that chugs fruitlessly against the humidity, so that Sean sits in his boxers, both sweating and chilled.

Except for the air conditioner, the room is utterly silent. No television on, no radio playing, his iPod silent and tucked into a suitcase pocket. The newspaper has been neatly folded and placed on the floor next to the wastebasket.

His head bowed, Sean stares into space, looking at nothing. His muscles are tired after yet another long flight, and his stomach a bit upset from the turbulence on the small commuter jet. As they'd bounced around in the clear blue, he'd thought about crashing, just as he always did, imagining the little jet plummeting into the cornfields, killing all. Like Buddy Holly. He'd thought about his beautiful daughters growing up without a father, just their Uncle Mack and the hobbits they'd adopted as uncles. Would Christine marry again? Of course she would; she'd need someone, and she was a beautiful, talented woman. His mom would be heartbroken, but she was tough; she'd carry on. Appear on television, crying, to tell stories of him as a little boy. Maybe there'd even _be_ a TV movie about them. He wonders who would star as him.

He sighs and rubs his hands on his bare thighs, watching the sweat smear. A cool shower would feel good, but he doesn't want to move. Doesn't really feel capable of moving. Ridiculous to imagine his own death. The plane hadn't crashed; it made a fine landing, someone had been there to meet him, the hotel was expecting him, his room was nice if bland and not particularly fancy. But Sean doesn't need fancy. He's a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. His beefcake days had been brief and were long over. Maybe he'd be lucky and turn into Robert Mitchum. Maybe he'd be unlucky and end up selling used cars. Or maybe his plane would crash into a cornfield and he'd be remembered as a hobbit until not even hobbits were remembered anymore.

He should lie down. Or take a shower. Or go swimming. Order a meal, a drink, a massage. Something, anything. But he remains seated, occasionally sighing, staring intently into space.

He's remembering, of course. He has an excellent memory. Like watching a monitor, immediately after Peter shouts "cut."

He's remembering Elijah. His eyes; how many hours had they stared into each other's eyes over the years? Elijah's justifiably famous blue ones, almond shaped, luminous, and seeing far too much. Seeing right into Sean's tattered soul.

"I love you," Elijah had told him repeatedly, and Sean believed it; even now, years later, he believes it still. Elijah did love him. Does love him. Closer than brothers they'd become, _in utero_ twins waiting for Pete's film to birth them, but neither Sam nor Sean would have a happy ending. Sam would be parted from his beloved Frodo for many long years. "One and whole," Frodo had said to him, and Sam had tried. Succeeded, really, in all the outward ways, but his own daughter had recognized how divided he'd really been during all those long years of service to the Shire. "Your treasure," Tolkien had had Elanor refer to Frodo, and Sean thought it was true. Frodo was Sam's treasure; he should have been Sam's reward for all the suffering he'd endured. Instead, Frodo left, fled the very place he'd made safe, and left Sam agonizingly alone.

It's ridiculous to compare himself to Sam, Sean knows. No one is as good, as noble, as heroic as Sam, certainly not Sean. But they share some traits, and loyalty is one. Sean is loyal to Elijah. Elijah is Sean's treasure, and it is his reward to speak his name and hear the crowd's answering cheer. It is Sean's privilege to tell and re-tell their story, to make himself into the buffoon and Elijah into the hero, because isn't that the truth? Certainly it's part of the truth.

So it's fitting, Sean thinks, that he does Adam Sandler movies while Elijah works with Michel Gondry and Charlie Kauffman. It's fitting that Sean travels the States reciting anecdotes while Elijah djays at London clubs and learns how to fight and play soccer. Footie, rather. That's what Lij would call it now, in his charmingly British-inspired vocabulary.

When the phone rings, Sean sits for some minutes, listening to its clamor. He realizes it's his cell. Doesn't matter. It would go to his voicemail after a few more rings. And there it goes. Silence fills the room again. The air conditioner hums. Sean sweats, and remembers.

He remembers a time when Elijah had looked up at him, then risen and put his arms around Sean, Sean's arms automatically going around him. Elijah fit perfectly, better than anyone. His body molded against Sean's, his breath tickling Sean's throat, and then his lips lightly touched Sean's skin. Sean shuddered powerfully, gasping, and then Elijah kissed his face, and Sean closed his eyes, and when Elijah finally kissed his lips, he opened his mouth to Elijah, licking at him, sucking on his tongue, pornographic kisses while he clutched at Elijah, fearful he'd change his mind and go.

Nothing like Elijah had ever happened to Sean before, and he knew with complete certainty that nothing ever would again. There was only one Elijah. As much as Sean loved Dom and Billy, as much as he enjoyed their company and silliness and even their kisses and gropes, it was Elijah to whom he turned. Elijah-tropic, he thought of himself, smiling at the neologism, even as he knew that Elijah would disapprove and tap him on the nose before kissing him.

The light falls in heavy swaths through the window, dust rising slowly through the stale air. Sean sits sweating in the inadequate air conditioning in Cedar Rapids, waiting for someone to come tell him what to do next. While he waits, he remembers.

Sean has a very good memory.

~ ~ ~

_Babes. How come you never answer your phone or email anymore? Fuck, I miss you. I was hoping to see you when I got back from London, but Chris says you're on the road again. Again, Christ, Seanie, I don't get it. Can't you stay home for one weekend? One night for your old friend?_

_I miss you so much. You can't know how much I miss you. I saw Billy in London; he snuck down for a quick visit, which was brilliant, but he says he never hears from you anymore either. He talked to Dom a couple days ago; we tried to call him, but you know our Dom. Our mad bad boy, probably out carousing._

_Call me, okay? I'm back in LA and shit, let's just do something, okay? Maybe go away for a couple days. At least let's do lunch, something._

_I love you, Sean. Answer your fucking phone, okay? How hard is that? Or your email. _

_I miss everything so fucking much, Seanie. I need you, I really honest-to-Christ need you to fucking pick up the phone._

_Like Dom would say: kiss, kiss. Call me, babes._

~ ~ ~

Sean has read of a phenomenon called _peritraumatic dissociation_. Victims of near-death incidents often experience it, a split between the self that observes and the self that experiences. He often wonders how it would feel to be so divided. He wonders whether survivors are ever able to integrate their two selves, the one who observes and the one who experiences. He wonders whether, in memory, the two can become one, or if they are forever destined to remain separate and apart and alone.

Sean sits in the poorly air-conditioned room and sweats and remembers.

~ ~ ~

CreatureFeatures is proud to announce a last-minute addition to our celebrity speakers: Mr. Sean Astin, best-known as Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings, will be speaking Saturday afternoon. Join us in a warm welcome to this extraordinary performer and inspirational speaker.

~ ~ ~

* * *

Posted May 31, 2007


End file.
